Weighing On Me

I assumed this because I so obviously was not a night person. It turns out a person can wind up being neither; it’s not an either/or situation.

I was going to write yesterday, but brunches happened. Yes. Multiple brunches. I’m still feeling like a fully-inflated balloon, swollen with bacon and eggs.

If I rattled off all the rich foods I put in my face this weekend, you would cower in fear. So, of course, now is the time (again) I’ve decided to not give up on myself regarding the body overhaul.

After having disposed of the old scale months ago, I bought a new one at Target on Saturday. I stood in front of a wall of scales, clearly playing a game of chicken with my eyes and their… digital displays… and I managed not to be scared away.

Assuming I don’t get obsessive about getting on the scale, I think it will be more helpful to have one around the house while I’m still dreaming of being 40 pounds less. It’s a reminder. Perhaps it will keep me somewhat on track. We shall see.

I made myself avocado toast on Saturday, too. I make the prettiest avocado toast. I’ve taken to snapping pictures of it nearly every time I make it. Does this make me a professional photographer? Perhaps.

Yesterday morning, I went to a real gym and did real interval training for an entire hour. My only goal was to keep from crying during the class. Had I been kinder to myself, it would have made more sense to direct my goal toward crushing my negative self talk with sweaty determination.

I am quick to victimize myself when it comes to the brain bully. I assume the real me is the one already on the ground being kicked. Like, we started fighting ten minutes before I declared I wouldn’t let my ego win. So, you know, I’m already wobbling around, having been hit repeatedly while simultaneously being barraged by insults about being a weak person. That’s when I’m supposed to not cry. Gross.

It would be better to recognize I don’t even need to step into the ring. Next time.

For the record, I did not cry. I came close, but it didn’t happen. Here are the weird incidents that did occur:

I did awkwardly high five the instructor when I went into the gym (per the assumption he wanted it — he had his hand poised for slapping, and previous people who entered the room had done so),

I ripped a layer off the pad of my ring finger while trying to adjust the foot straps on a rowing machine, resulting in bleeding and needing a bandage, and

Upon finishing the class, the very fit, muscled man who worked out next to me approached me with his fist outstretched, congratulated me on making it through the class, and then, as if it was slow motion, we fist bumped.

I’m a high fiver and a fist bumper now, evidently. Is this what healthy people do? It’s so alien. As is working out, if we’re being fair, and I did that, too.

Hell, I need to fly out of the house to get my daughter to school in six minutes, so this will be edited after it’s been posted. I owe you words at 8 o’clock, internet! I’m not letting you down.